


Judge Not

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Puokki produced a prompt with so much substance that I couldn't even consider treating this as a standard ficlet: <i>I'd love to see something dealing with Aziraphale's obvious prejudice against demons and, subsequently, against Crowley (like the time he's trying to explain the love he feels in Lower Tadfield, but just says something along lines of, "I can't explain it, especially not to you.")  It's clear that Crowley thinks demons are not particularly evil, and they're just doing their jobs, and it's also clear that he takes Aziraphale's comments to heart. I just think it's one of those unresolved things between them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Judge Not

**Author's Note:**

> This is set just post-novel (late summer 1990, as chronology goes, for people who are nit-pickers like me), and it's first-time fic, which I kind of shy from these days, as well as I've got to know them. I may be out of practice. It's also a first-time in that this is the first time Aziraphale has ever set foot in Crowley's flat, which I've never covered; it seems to me Aziraphale's bookshop has always been the hang-out, and neither of them ever questioned that very much.
> 
> (Originally written and posted to LJ in May of 2012.)

It was one of those nights when an argument had begun to brew well before they started drinking. The difference was that Crowley had insisted on _his_ flat for once, citing, as he did periodically, that the bookshop was a tip. Aziraphale had pointed out that Adam had seen to it that the bookshop's restoration left it in much better nick than it had been before the fire, _thank_ you very much; Crowley had hung up in a huff.

Little wonder, then, that Aziraphale felt he had something of a bone to pick when he turned up on Crowley's doorstep with a bottle of 1989 Ravenswood Zinfandel Cooke (the boy was encouraging them to sample New World fare, it would seem; Aziraphale's cupboard was now chock-full of grapes from as far abroad as New Zealand and Argentina, never mind the California swill he was holding).

Crowley cracked his front door and peered out suspiciously, _sans_ sunglasses. His eyes glimmered faint mistrust. "It'll age badly, that one," he said, opening the door wider. "You might as well come in, angel. The sooner we start, the better it'll taste."

"I should hope so," Aziraphale sniffed, scuffing his soles thoroughly on the _WELCOME_ mat. "So, this is, er, your..." Aziraphale was somewhat lost for words. Everything was pristine, _white_ , right down to the tasteful leather sofa and well organized bookshelves.

And the house plants. Crowley could easily have taken Best-in-Show with any one of them at that yearly RHS to-do in Chelsea. Very sleek, otherwise. Even _bland_.

"You haven't got enough patterns," Aziraphale blurted.

"I beg your pardon?" Crowley said, striding back in from the kitchen with a Waterford brandy snifter cradled in each hand. Aziraphale left off staring at Crowley's living room to stare at _him_. This was Crowley at home, then, was it? Sunglasses and suit-jacket gone, collared shirt untucked, pale scaly-toenailed feet curling nervously against the close-cropped carpet. How could evil possibly look so _mundane_?

"Problem?" Crowley asked, crossing to the sofa. "Sit down."

"Don't mind if I do," said Aziraphale, but then there was the question of whether the cushion right next to Crowley was a touch too familiar, or if Crowley would be offended if he took the one at the opposite end, or—

Crowley awkwardly patted the one right next to his own and then set about uncorking the wine, so that settled the matter. It was strange, not having an expanse of stained, splintered wooden table between them. Not looking him directly in the eye. Crowley turned his head as he pried the cork free, offering Aziraphale an uneasy grin.

"I guess this means a truce?"

"Actually, I don't know what it means," Aziraphale admitted, thinking back to their chat in the park, which had been less than a week ago—but which felt much older, as if they'd been always been having this conversation, but had only just realized it. "I've been thinking," he said, throwing caution to the wind, "about ineffability."

"Again," Crowley muttered, filling both glasses to the brim. "If you spill it, you're paying my cleaning bill. And anyway, what does ineffability have to do with your disapproval of my interior decorating or your envy of my skill in horticulture?"

"I'm not _envious_ —" Aziraphale started, indignant, but quickly cut himself off. He took a deep breath, counted to five, and then continued. "What I mean to say is, dear boy, that your lot are far more, well, _normal_ than I'd ever given you credit for."

Crowley's expression went from affable to annoyed, his eyebrows fiercely knit.

"My lot?" he echoed, and then took a long drink, as if he was going to need it. "You mean demons, right? Hell. The whole damned horde. Just say it."

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably and drained a quarter of his glass.

"Well, yes. You. The Adversary, _et cetera_. I—"

" _You_ ," said Crowley, pointedly, "have clearly got some issues to work through."

"Don't act as if you've never had a go at _me_ ," Aziraphale snapped. "Slimming aid remarks and such. Tempting me with your unfinished dessert. It's hurtful."

"Having a go is having a go," said Crowley. "Prejudice is quite a different animal."

Aziraphale emptied the remainder of his glass.

"Somewhere in your sea full of brains, no doubt?"

Crowley set his wine down on the coffee table and turned in his seat, fixing Aziraphale with a long, hard stare. It was oddly uncomfortable, however many times they had scrutinized one another in the past, and never mind under what circumstances. Only Adam Young's boyish, knowing glance had come this close to whispering, God-like, directly in his mind, _I know you, you know me, and we are too old for these games._

"Do you see this, angel?" he said, lowering his eyes to the floor, to his knees, to his chest, to his throat ( _in-out-in-out_ , that too-human flash between the unbuttoned folds of his collar; remembering to breathe in that moment must have taken every ounce of his concentration), and then back up to meet Aziraphale's. "You're stuck with it."

"Mortals have it easy," Aziraphale lamented, refilling his glass. "They can choose."

Crowley grabbed his wrist, and Aziraphale almost dropped the bottle.

"No, you don't get it. We're no different from them," Crowley pleaded.

Aziraphale set the bottle down and gripped Crowley's wrist in return, hard enough to bruise given their present state. Crowley's pulse raced, and, for a moment, Aziraphale wanted to blame the wine, but they hadn't drunk nearly enough.

"And from each other?" he asked, but there it was, already seeded: _doubt_.

"Listen to me," said Crowley, with a sense of urgency. "We've already chosen."

And, just like before, Aziraphale caught himself staring again.

Odd, to think he'd taken this creature, who was for all intents and purposes his opposite, as _less than his equal_. No, not odd; to call it that would be to sell Crowley short. It was _shameful_. Foibles, fears, and passions: these human indulgences, they had always taken for granted, but Aziraphale had never navigated the truth of them with half as much grace as this infuriating, shape-shifting, _wonderful_...

"Oh," said Aziraphale, revelation dawning. "You mean feelings."

Crowley let go of Aziraphale's wrist and covered his face with both hands.

"This is not where I had intended this to go," he said, voice badly muffled, but whether with shame or trepidation, Aziraphale couldn't tell. "No, really, absolute disaster. Forget I brought it up. More wine? No, of course not. I've got some whisky—"

"What is it like?" asked Aziraphale, desperately. "What's it like? Do you even..."

"Feel?" Crowley ventured, almost coldly, lowering his hands. "Are you _serious_ —"

At a complete loss, Aziraphale did the only thing he could think of that might possibly result in Crowley's prickly defenses breaking down long enough to make him realize that running wasn't an option. The kiss was clumsy and close-mouthed, even chaste, but Crowley's tongue flicked out in surprise and it was all downhill from there.

"That's not what I meant," said Aziraphale, thickly, blinking at the startled realization that Crowley had slumped backwards against the arm of the sofa and Aziraphale was half on top of him and, oh, _bugger_ it all, he might as well explain himself. "I want to know what you _do_ feel. Your flippancy is, on occasion, worrying."

"Flippancy," Crowley echoed, letting go of Aziraphale's collar. He touched his lips in disbelief, shifting uncomfortably, but didn't get up, which caused Aziraphale to lose his balance and topple onto the floor. Well, that was that. Insult to injury. He'd tried.

He rose, brushing himself off. "That's more than enough humiliation for one night."

"Wait," Crowley said, clumsily levering himself up. He shirt buttons were half undone, and his left hand was still busy with the rest. "There. I'll join you. Not much to it, but it's what I've got to work with. I've never been good at seduction. In fact, you might say it's the one duty in which I have, as a result, been completely remiss. Right up there with riding horses. I'm totally pants." Pale throat, even paler chest. Stunned, Aziraphale watched him shrug out of the shirt and, without hesitation, ditch his trousers and underthings next. Naked. Crowley. Naked on the sofa. He sank back onto his elbows again and stretched out on the cushions, grimacing. "See?"

 _Yes_ , Aziraphale wanted to say. _Oh, yes, I do see, and I can't imagine why I didn't see before._ Instead, he sighed and unbuttoned his jumper—nothing for it—and followed suit. Crowley's eyes went from dull yellow to burnished gold as he watched, full of curious fascination. Aziraphale swallowed, almost tripping out of the rest. He stood up straight, sighed, and waited.

Crowley leaned forward, his expression hungry. The slightest brush of tongue, the gentlest graze of eye-teeth at Aziraphale's thigh. His unsteady hands settled on Aziraphale's hips with hesitant care, angling him forward. _There_.

His body was what he liked it to be, and that included the sweets he put in it. Aziraphale sensed no mockery in Crowley's gaze: only questioning, earnest intent. His tongue flicked out again, just as it had when they'd kissed. Aziraphale felt a pang of desire so fierce it dizzied him, made him reach for Crowley without thinking. He was heavier than he looked, all lanky sinew and welcoming limbs. Crowley wrapped himself around Aziraphale with desperate strength, like he might never get a second chance.

Aziraphale swayed a little on his feet, and then carried him down the hall. The first door he nudged open with his elbow was Crowley's office, and, somehow, the desk didn't seem terribly inviting. He found the spare bedroom next, which Crowley had converted into a sort of library (magazines, several encyclopedia sets, and a baffling array of reference books), and finally staggered through the opposite door and into a queen-sized monstrosity as plain, white, and modern as the rest of the flat. But the duvet was fine, and Crowley's weight dragged them both into its plush depths.

"Anything you wish, my dear," Aziraphale told him, and it sounded ridiculous. By some miracle, he meant it.

Crowley panted, wild-eyed, reaching for Aziraphale's hand, and promptly froze.

Aziraphale could see the strain in him, the uncertainty, the willingness to _give_ what he wanted, but never to ask. "Anything," Aziraphale repeated. He pressed Crowley back into the pillows, kiss after slow kiss, learning how they fit, _if_ they fit. And they did.

"I hadn't—" Crowley laughed, shaking under him "—thought that far ahead."

"No," Aziraphale coaxed, "but you gave me a hint, unless I'm very much mistaken." He touched Crowley's throat, caressed the rise and fall of it, let his fingers trail with reassuring deliberation down the smooth expanse of his chest, fan out to find his nipples, explore the fragile valley between each set of ribs. He was ticklish.

"Don't mock me," Crowley hissed, tensing unbearably. "Don't _teassse_ —"

Aziraphale interrupted with a kiss, letting his hands fall to rest on Crowley's feet. He drew them up and rubbed at Crowley's bony ankles, ran his palms up the backs of his calves, soothing away the knots as best he could. He touched Crowley's inner thigh, mirroring the spot where Crowley had bitten him not fifteen minutes before.

"Never," Aziraphale said, humming at how satisfyingly Crowley's prick seemed to fit in his hand. "Or at least not anymore. We'll strike a balance."

Crowley mouthed one word, scarcely a whisper: " _Please._ "

Breathing deeply, Aziraphale bent low and nuzzled Crowley's heated flesh before parting his lips. Irrational, he'd have thought, to feel such tenderness in performing what was, for their kind, a base and foreign act. Crowley's fingernails dug abruptly into Aziraphale's neck, his damp palms sliding over Aziraphale's shoulder blades.

Aziraphale sucked him gently at first, learning taste and shape: salt and stretched skin, bitter bright sweat on the back of his tongue. Crowley was gasping already, wordless sobs conveying as much shock as relief. Aziraphale pressed at the small of his back, moved with him, let breathing fall by the wayside.

 _I'm sorry_ , he wanted to say. _Why didn't you tell me?_ Crowley came, quiet now except for a few soft, choked sounds that made Aziraphale wish he could see his face. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and let his forehead drop to rest against Crowley's belly. He felt exhausted, somehow, but his body was still taut with need.

Weakly, Crowley tugged at his shoulders. Aziraphale shifted willingly up the length of him, instinctively seeking Crowley's mouth. He was rewarded with the familiar sting of teeth at his lower lip, had no trouble trapping one of Crowley's slim thighs between his own, and let momentum do the rest. Crowley clung to him tightly, shivering with the pleasure of it. Aziraphale had never realized, could never have guessed...

"You could, you know," Crowley was saying, in a low voice, his fingers snaking their way into Aziraphale's disheveled hair. What a fright they must look. Crowley stretched against him, making the sticky mess worse. Aziraphale dried them with a thought, tucking Crowley closer against his chest. The crook of Crowley's neck smelled like sandalwood bath soap from Trumper's on Curzon Street.

"Hmmm?" Aziraphale asked, still catching his breath.

"Choose," Crowley said. "To be stuck with this. If you wanted."

Aziraphale considered Crowley's proposition. He imagined lunches yet to be had at the Ritz and walks yet to be taken through St. James's Park. Making love on sleepy Mayfair mornings, arguing their way through late brunch on uneventful Soho afternoons. Holidays, perhaps, in more agreeable climes. Crowley stretched out beside him, idly sifting sand through his fingers, warm and lazy in the California sun.

The wine hadn't been _that_ bad, and his offer was, in a word, tempting.

"I think," said Aziraphale, half smiling, "that I already am."


End file.
